The next article is about a study that says there need to be more studies about women who embezzle. Marion Palm wholeheartedly agrees, and checks the sources. They seem to stand up but could use more stats.
And so on. This is her expertise, and she’s lost in her world. This is where she comes for tips, for clues, for balance, for nurturing, for love, for sorrow, for community.
Three pages down, she finds an article written in the first person. One woman who embezzles to another woman who embezzles. Charlene is in prison serving the second year of a five-year sentence and is innocent. She claims it was a case of identity fraud, overzealous and most likely criminal police, and a tragically incompetent female lawyer. The lawyer giggled before sentencing. Charlene is in her cell writing on lined paper with a cheap ballpoint pen and she’s sent it to a feminist blog.
Charlene is full of shit. This is uncharacteristic of women who embezzle, Marion knows. Women who embezzle confess easily, honestly, and they involve their families. I took a risk and made this sacrifice so my daughters and sons and sisters and husbands and brothers and mothers and fathers could live a better life. It’s not about me. That’s what women who embezzle say, and Marion believes she will say something similar if and when she’s caught. She feels it’s true; her husband and daughters have lived better, happier lives because of her crimes.
This woman is different, a variable, an outlier in the data. She offers the excuse of nonguilt. She believes her own lies. Charlene is her own victim. An appealing perspective, Marion thinks.
She reads through the story once more and does a cursory background check. It leads her into the strange world of marathon blogs, and Marion thinks of her husband. He’s always wanted to run a marathon, and every year he thinks about submitting his name for the New York City Marathon lottery. But he bemoans the amount of time training would take, which would be time away from his family and his writing. Still, he’s got to run it once in his life, before his knees go. The issue is effortlessly forgotten until the day of the marathon. Then he’s depressed on Fifth Avenue, watching the runners go by. Next year, he repeats with great sadness and determination. Marion refused to engage last time. This is meaningless and boring, she wanted to tell him. How and why can you not see how meaningless this is? How boring you are?
A thread of comments unfolds under an article Marion has found.
BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR CHARLENE SHE CHEATS. Note to all marathon organizers and volunteers and runners: if you see this woman, beware.
A photo of Charlene has been removed. Marion feels disappointment but reads on.
This woman is a notorious marathon CHEAT. She joins in for the last three miles and finishes with a TOP TEN TIME. She’s done this about 7 times THAT WE KNOW OF.
>She did this in Providence in ‘08. UNBELIEVABLE.
>>SERIOUSLY. What’s the point?
>>>My cousin saw her in Jersey. Charlene finished and CRIED.
The writers seem personally victimized by this fraud. Marion guesses she understands. A marathon is meaningless and boring unless it is metaphorical. By trying to cheapen whatever that metaphor might be, Charlene has trampled on something specifically hazardous. Still, Marion can’t intuit what this woman needs. It could be fame or a cheering crowd, but cheating at a marathon seems stupidly risky for such a small reward. Perhaps Charlene is not really a woman who embezzles after all; she’s a cheater of marathons, a hog of the spotlight. She might even enjoy her own pursuit by the law.
Marion Palm clicks to the NYC Marathon website and enters her husband for the lottery. She remembers his credit card number, the code required, and the expiration date. She hums a little as she perpetrates this tiny fraud, clicks the button to say she understands the health risks and wants to proceed. Yes. She hacks into his email and reads the confirmation that he has entered the marathon lottery. It tries to sell her some running gear and a training guide, and she deletes the email. She hopes Nathan wins. She imagines Ginny and Jane cheering for their father on Fifth Avenue. Jane hands him a paper cup of Gatorade. Ginny makes fun of his clothes. He’ll see them in three hours, he says boyishly. Ginny and Jane go home and watch the marathon on the news. Nathan crosses the finish line alone.
She moves on virtually to her real purpose. The Days Inn has lost its allure, and Marion Palm needs a room. While it was helpful and necessary to recuperate after her bout with homelessness, her stasis must end. She searches neighborhoods that her husband and his friends would never go to and certainly would never live in. She’d like to be by the water, she thinks. She starts to look around Coney Island and Brighton Beach. The summer is over; there may be rooms available.
She creates a new email account and writes emails to the Craigslist ads. “Hello. I’m a recent divorcée and I’m looking for a furnished room. I’m very clean and want to pay in cash in advance.” Emails out, she waits for a response.
Missing Persons
In the basement, Denise discovers a small pink armoire under a mouse-turd-encrusted tarp. The armoire reaches Denise’s waist and is hand-painted, possibly handmade. There are two doors on top and three drawers underneath. The drawers are small, the hardware tiny and delicate. Denise guesses a grandfather built this for a granddaughter. She kneels and opens one of the small doors. She finds several naked Barbies sitting on the shelves, and a glass of water with an iPhone in it. She pulls open one of the drawers and finds a stack of credit cards. She shuffles through them, and it’s not only credit cards. Here is Marion Palm’s driver’s license. Here is her Social Security card. Denise sweeps her hand to the back of the drawer and finds Marion’s passport. The day before, she found $700 bundled with a rubber band in a shoebox on a shelf above the washer and dryer, next to the detergent.
She leaves her discovery and finds Nathan passed out in the living room. She shoves him awake. Nathan must call the police. The argument isn’t difficult. He gives in because Denise is usually right about these things and it has been four days. Nathan still feels uneasy about calling the cops. He remembers the last time he did this. He called 911. The operator yelled at him for tying up the line, and then the detective scoffed at his story. Marion walked through the door three hours later.
Denise knows she must tell Nathan about her discovery but can’t find the right moment or words.